


This Last Thing

by Isis



Category: Frontier Wolf - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2012-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 22:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cunorix seeks retribution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [motetus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/motetus/gifts).



> Thank you to my marvelous beta-reader altri_uccelli, and to Motetus for giving me a reason to write the story of my heart.

A square patch of moonlight shone on the lime-washed walls at the foot of Alexios' cot. Night-time, then. There was an odd restlessness in him, like a bird in his breast beating its wings madly trying to get out. Perhaps he needed only to piss; he hoped there was a pot under his bed, for he was not certain he could make it out of the bed on his own legs.

He was not alone, he realized. A shape lay to his left, another person under the native rugs spread across the bed. The broad shape of a man, and in the moonlight Alexios could not tell the color of his hair but somehow he knew it was the russet of autumn leaves. 

The head turned. Eyes opened – warm, clear eyes – and a broad mouth smiled warmly at him. "There you are," said Cunorix. His voice was rough with sleep, rich with longing. "I have been looking for you." He reached an arm across to Alexios, who instinctively moved closer, into the warmth and comfort of Cunorix's familiar embrace. As he shifted, though, his arm protested, sending daggers of pain through him, and he could not help but groan and hiss on an indrawn breath.

"You are hurt?" 

Alexios exhaled unsteadily, feeling the pain ebb as he moved his weight back onto his other side. "It is healing." Then he frowned. Something was wrong. He searched his memory. "You – you gave me this wound."

"I did," agreed Cunorix. His smile broadened as he turned on his side, looking at Alexios; the corners of his mouth turned cruel, and his eyes darkened. "And I shall give you many more."

He rolled forward, the whole of his body-weight coming down on Alexios' left arm, on the wound that was still wrapped and aching. The pain was instantaneous and excruciating. Alexios screamed. His vision went white, then black.

A sudden noise at the door; a man called, "Sir! Are you all right?"

Alexios opened his eyes. He was alone in his bed. His arm hurt like the devil. 

"Sir!" The concerned face of the duty orderly peered in. "Shall I call for the surgeon?"

"No, no," he gasped. "I am fine." 

The man left, and Alexios leaned back heavily into his bed. It had been a dream, that was all. He was in Onnum, with what was left of the Frontier Wolves. Cunorix could not be here. Cunorix was dead; Alexios had killed him.

His sleep was fitful for the rest of the night. He lay awake for much of it, watching the patch of moonlight move across the wall, remembering. When he slept, his dreams were a jumble of uncomfortable thoughts. 

The surgeon came in the morning and inspected his wound, frowning. "Perhaps we should bind you to the bed so that you cannot roll on your arm. It is not good for healing to put weight on it."

You do not need to tell me that, Alexios thought, but he only said meekly that he would do his best not to jar it; it had hurt enough, he had learned his lesson. The surgeon nodded as though Alexios had just proved his point, but he did not bind him to the bed, for which Alexios was grateful. He did not know what would happen if Cunorix came while he was tied, unable to move – and then he shook the cobwebs from his head, laughing to himself. It had just been a dream. Cunorix had not been there.

He had almost forgotten the dream by the time Hilarion came in the evening, as was his habit, to slouch on the edge of Alexios' cot and feed him his broth. It felt nice to have Hilarion's arm supporting him, to feel the broth slip down his throat and spread warmth through his body, and so he was taken off-guard when Hilarion set the empty bowl down and said, "So what's this about an evil spirit that came in the night to cut off your arm, then?"

"What?" He must have looked honestly puzzled, for Hilarion laughed.

"It's what the men are saying. I suppose they heard it from the orderly, who said you let out a screech as though an entire war-band of Picts were on your tail; and the surgeon said your arm was all bashed about in the morning, like you'd been hitting someone with it in your sleep."

"No," said Alexios slowly. "I mean, I rolled onto my arm in the night, and it woke me, and I must have cried out with the pain." But in his mind he saw russet hair, and a broad mouth turning cruel.

"That must have been it," said Hilarion. 

The next night he woke again, or thought he did. This time Cunorix stood against the wall, his arms folded, looking at him with a great sadness in his eyes.

He struggled to sit up. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It is all so confusing. I know not what is real and what is false. I had thought the People of the Eagle were our friends." Cunorix frowned. "I had thought you were my friend."

"Come here, and we shall speak together," said Alexios, patting the bed beside him; and it seemed to him he had said something like those words once before, but he couldn't remember quite where that had been.

Cunorix came from his place by the wall and sat on the edge of the bed. Straight-backed, thought Alexios, not like Hilarion; and there was a sudden flash in his mind, of Hilarion lounging on his bed, and he knew this was important, and he fought to keep it in his mind before it slipped away. "Not like Hilarion," he murmured out loud, and Cunorix nodded.

"He is your friend still, while I am no longer." He reached up and touched Alexios' cheek; his fingers were cold, whisper-light on Alexios' skin, like dead leaves, thought Alexios; like the mist on the moors. He could almost smell him: leather and grass, and the faint scent of smoke that always seemed to cling to his skin and clothing.

"You are more than my friend," whispered Alexios. 

"Nay, I am less, for I am your sworn enemy, now that you have killed my brother and me."

Alexios shook his head. "It is true that I killed Connla, but only to save him from a worse death."

"You have forgotten me already, I see!" Cunorix smiled, but there was no warmth to it. It was that broad, cruel smile that Alexios suddenly remembered from the night before. It was the smile of Connla, bright and careless; and then it came back to him in a rush, that he _had_ killed Cunorix, killed him when they had fought sword against sword on the walls at Bremenium, and he fought down the urge to cry out.

"I have not forgotten you. But I would hope you would not be my enemy, after all that has happened."

"How can I be anything but your enemy, after all that has happened?" The voice was mocking, and Alexios heard the echo of Connla's laughter behind it. 

His mouth went dry. "Are you Cunorix, or are you Connla?"

"Why, I am Cunorix. Can you not tell?" He leaned forward, and his hands came to fasten around Alexios' throat. Cold hands, like ice. His lips moved close to Alexios' ear. "Connla has forgiven you, but I have not."

The fingers on his throat tightened, and Alexios gasped. "No," he forced out, his teeth gritted. He reached up to yank Cunorix's arms away, but his hands closed only on cold mist that dissolved under his palms. The pressure around his neck was gone; Cunorix was gone. Only his harsh laughter hung in Alexios' ears.

The next day Hilarion inquired of Alexios if he had slept well. "No evil dreams last night?" Alexios looked down, into the bowl of broth. "Ah," said Hilarion. "Well, at least the spirit did not try to cut your arm off again. The surgeon says you are healing well."

Alexios took a sip of the broth, then another, as Hilarion held the bowl to his lips. He did not look at Hilarion until the bowl was empty. "It was Cunorix I dreamed of these last two nights."

"Ah," said Hilarion again. He bent to set the bowl on the floor, and then leaned back against the wall next to Alexios. "I suppose he is, after all, the spirit who tried to cut off your arm. Small wonder your sleep is not restful, if you relive your battle with him each night." 

He shook his head. "I don't dream of the battle. I am here, in my bed, and he is beside me, as real as you are now. He does not seem any more a dream than you are."

Hilarion raised a mocking eyebrow. "Well, then, you can tell it must be a dream. What reason would Cunorix have to be in your bed?"

* * *

"Connla!" shouted Cunorix. Only a moment before he'd been sitting on the tufted heather with Alexios, quietly talking of the brood mares and the health of his father the old Chieftain; now he leapt to his feet, his face red with sudden anger. "You will make her lose the foal, if you do not have a care with your hounds!"

Connla had been riding toward them across the green and gold fields; now he whistled, and his hounds came away from the mare – Mouse, Alexios thought that one was called, for the color of her coat. "You are an old woman, my brother. They know how to behave around horses."

"They behave as well as their master, which is very little," Cunorix snapped, and he stalked off to soothe the mare, who, Alexios had to admit, did not look particularly upset by having had Connla's hounds play at her feet.

"I think it is his own foal he is worried about," Connla said as he slid off his horse to drop to the ground beside Alexios. The hounds began to play roughly with each other, wrestling and nipping at each other's shoulders. "And his own mare." He flashed his sly grin at Alexios.

"His mare?" repeated Alexios blankly – and then he understood. The last time he had been in the Chieftain's Hall he had seen the curving belly of Shula of the golden ear-drops; summer was drawing to a close, and her time must also be drawing near. "Does it go well with his woman?"

"It goes well enough, the women say." He leaned close, his grin turning wicked. "But she must now keep to her own bed, and this does not improve my brother's temper."

"Ah."

Connla shrugged. "He should just take another woman to bed. There are many who would have him."

"I thought it was you they were all chasing," Alexios teased. Certainly it had seemed that way to him, whenever he was in the village together with Connla, and every girl they passed would look at Connla from under lowered lashes, or smile at him openly, depending on how shy she might be. No surprise the girls were attracted to him, with his fine looks and his bold swagger.

"There are more than I can bed by myself! He is my brother, so I suppose I must share," he said with a dramatic sigh, and they both laughed.

"What is it are you laughing about?" Cunorix demanded as he returned to them. 

"The mare is all right?" asked Alexios, and Cunorix grudgingly nodded.

"No thanks to those hounds of yours," he said, looking at Connla, who laughed again. "So tell me, what is the jest?"

"Oh, the Wolf Commander has agreed to take you with him to the town when next he goes to visit the women, since you will not take any of ours to bed."

"I did not say that!" Alexios protested, as Cunorix's face tightened.

"But you should," said Connla, "for my brother lies in a cold bed every night, and it makes him angry with everyone. Especially me," he added, leaping to his feet with a light and easy grace. "So I had better be on my way, before he finds something else to complain about." 

"I do not need a woman," Cunorix ground out. He looked as though he were about to grab Connla by the throat, his face stormy and red, his thick russet brows drawing together.

Quickly Alexios got to his feet as well. There was more tension than was usual between the brothers, that was plain enough to see. Placing a hand on Cunorix's arm, he said lightly, "That is good, for I never visit the women in town. The Legion is late with my pay as usual, and I have little enough money without spending it on them."

"Well, then," said Connla. He flashed the careless smile that always gave Alexios a twinge of apprehension, for he knew it meant Connla was about to do or say something without regard to the wisdom of it. The hounds had stopped their playing and padded over to him when he stood, and he bent to ruffle the fur at their heads. "You will just have to bed each other, then, and it will make both of you more cheery." And then he was astride his horse and riding up the valley, whistling, his hounds gamboling behind.

"He is young, and he is foolish," said Cunorix, when Connla had disappeared over the grassy ridge of the skyline. "He does not mean anything by what he says."

"I know," said Alexios. His voice caught in his throat, and Cunorix looked at him, frowning. Cunorix's gaze sharpened and grew thoughtful. Alexios felt himself turning red. Please, he thought. Let him not ask.

But Cunorix studied him for a long moment. "Is it that you do not visit the women for other reasons?"

"This is something we do not need to talk about," said Alexios, a bit desperately. His eyes were fixed on Cunorix's feet, solidly planted on the ground.

"You are not the first man to look so at Connla."

Alexios looked up in surprise. "Connla? No, it is not –" And then he broke off, for he had said much more than he had meant to say. His face flamed even more hotly; he was sure it was the color of Connla's hair by now. "It is not Connla." 

"Ah," said Cunorix, and then he, too, flushed red.

"I should return to Castellum," said Alexios. "I did not mean – I am sorry – I will leave," he said, and blindly turned to go. 

Cunorix put a hand on his arm. "I do not," he said quietly, "need a woman."

* * *

It was surprisingly easy, Alexios had found, to be with Cunorix. And although Connla had meant it only for a jest, it did seem to ease something in both of them, a tension that had had no release until they found it in each other. Not that they did so often, as their separate responsibilities kept them busy most of the time in their own places. When they were together they rarely had privacy. But just the knowledge that they might slip off together, when the day's hunting was done or the horses brought in from the pasture, made everything seem sweeter and brighter.

If only this golden summer would last forever, he had thought as he stood with Cunorix on that day just before harvest time, watching the brood mares grazing. It was still early afternoon; they had still time enough to wander away from Finnan and the mares, time enough to lie in the long grass and slowly explore the mysteries of one another's bodies. Time enough to bury his nose in Cunorix's neck, breathe in his scent of leather and smoke, taste the sweat from his skin. It might be the last time; soon Shula would have her child, and Cunorix would return to her bed, for he loved her, Alexios knew. And despite what he felt for Cunorix – perhaps _because_ of what he felt – he did not want to cause any trouble between his friend and his friend's woman.

And then Connla had come to them, galloping wildly down the hill with his fiery hair streaming behind him like a banner, bringing the news that their father the Chieftain Ferradach Dhu was likely to pass beyond the sunset that night. There was no question of slipping off together that day, not any more.

Alexios had attended the Burial Feast and the Chief-making, as he was required to do as fort Commander. But as he went through the motions, there was a hole in his heart he did not want to think about. It was one thing to lie in the long grass with the son of the Chieftain; another thing entirely to lie with the new Chief himself, the father of a new son. The golden summer was over.

The fire of hope had lit within him when Cunorix had clasped his hand. He had said that they might have good hunting on the old trails again, after he had time to get used to his new place, and that had sent a spark down Alexios' spine, the sudden warmth of joy. The loss had been for Cunorix as well as for himself. They would be together again.

But it was not to be. The new Praepositus came from Bremenium, with his too-fine horse; and that was the beginning of the end, the first card played that led to the next, to the next and the next, one card after another in an order that could not be changed. And they all led, inevitably, to Alexios lying in a bed in Onnum, alone with his ghosts.

* * *

Cunorix did not come to him in his sleep every night. Some nights he had inconsequential dreams, and some he had no dreams he could remember. But more often than not he would imagine himself awake, and Cunorix in his room. Always he was friendly, at first; he was the ugly young man he had grown to love, open-faced and joyously welcoming. And each time Alexios first saw him, he could not remember anything past that. He seemed as real and alive as ever he had been; Connla's theft of the horse and Connla's death at his hands was forgotten, as was the long ride south to the abandoned fort at Bremenium, the challenge and the fight. All he remembered was Cunorix his heart-companion, his broad mouth and his warm hands.

And every time, the dream turned sour. Cunorix's face twisted, and his hands grew claws or turned into knives. He would remind Alexios of all that had happened since the Chief-making, and then he would strike, and Alexios would wake gasping and sweating, his face pale and his stomach churning. He would remember what he had done: he had driven his sword into Cunorix's breast, had killed the man who had been his friend. As bad as the dreams were, that was the worst part, the remembering. 

Still, his injuries healed, and it was not very long before he was walking the horse-lines and the ramparts, leaning on Hilarion with his wounded arm in a sling. He had thought it would be better when he was finally out of his room. He wondered if maybe it was all the staring at blank lime-washed walls that had conjured up Cunorix in his mind to torment him. That maybe if he were outside in the real world – with real people, living people – the image of Cunorix would vanish.

But that was not what happened. He walked along the ramparts with Hilarion, looking down upon the remnants of the Third Ordo as they went through the motions of their drills, and a flash of color caught his eye, a russet head on a sturdy body. The man turned his head. It was Cunorix, who smiled at him, and Alexios stopped abruptly. His breath came out in a rush.

"What is it?" said Hilarion.

"It is –" started Alexios, and then his words caught in his throat. The man was not looking at him. His hair was the deep brown of freshly-turned earth; how had he thought it russet? It was not Cunorix. "It is nothing."

In the next days Alexios saw Connla's brilliant hair a few times, over faces that looked heart-achingly familiar at first. But when they turned he could see that they were only men of the fort, nobody he knew. He saw the sharp eyes of Morvidd, the Oak Priest of the Votadini, looking out from under the hood of a dark cloak, and his breath caught in his throat. But it was only one of the mule-drivers. He saw a boy that might have been Rufus the junior trumpeter, and a balding, red-faced man that might have been Kaeso the Quartermaster. Every place he turned, he saw his ghosts.

But the ghost he saw most frequently was Cunorix. He was everywhere: he was in the stables and in the storerooms, in the mess and on the parade ground. And every night Alexios saw him in his room or in his bed, in the dreams that seemed so terrifyingly real.

Then came the day that Alexios was called to audience with the Emperor Constans and offered promotion: he could be Tribune to the general overseeing coastal defense, or bodyguard on the Emperor's own staff. Or, the Emperor told him, almost as an afterthought, he could command the First Attacotti Frontier Scouts…

He looked out of the window, down to the yard between the Praetorium and the granaries, at the tribesmen below. Attacotti prisoners who had chosen to serve with the Eagles, rather than go to the slave market. "Some five hundred of them chose the Eagles," said the Emperor. "The rest of them are at Cilurnum, and tomorrow they go down to Corstopitum to begin their six weeks' foot drill. When that's done, you can take them out to Belgica and make Frontier Wolves of them."

It was no choice at all. Once a Frontier Wolf, always a Frontier Wolf. He could do nothing else.

He wondered whether Cunorix would follow him to Belgica.

* * *

It was not far to Corstopitum, not even an hour's march, but he was glad to have Hilarion with him. The Attacotti had mastered the rudiments at Onnum and marched creditably well, at least for men who would be Wolves. Alexios suspected the Eagles who fancied themselves true Romans would look down their noses at his barbarians; well, let them. For himself he was sure he could make a fine Ordo of them, by his standards if not by Rome's.

They joined the Attacotti who had come from Cilurnum, and then it was time to act the Commander, which seemed to chiefly consist of watching from the ramparts as Hilarion, Drusillus, and Lucius put the men through their paces. Alexios had felt a pang in his heart when he had heard the name of Lucius, the youngest of the three officers who would serve under him. But he was small and pale, nothing like his old Centenarius at Castellum: square, dark Lucius who loved his Georgics and his Christos, who had died at the bridge.

And the Attacotti were nothing like the Votadini. Yet Alexios saw Cunorix among them more times than he could count. He could not shirk his responsibility to make an appearance each day, to look over his men at their exercises and pronounce them much improved from the day before, but he grew to dread this, for in one part or another of the formation, Cunorix would always look back at him. 

It was no better when he retired to his quarters. His dreams were as bad as they had been at Onnum. 

"You killed my brother," said Cunorix. He lay beside Alexios on the bed, one hand idly stroking Alexios' hip.

"He would have been cut to pieces," protested Alexios. It seemed to him he had said this a dozen times; why would Cunorix not listen?

"Perhaps I shall kill your brother, in exchange."

"I have no brothers," Alexios said, but a cold prickle slid down his spine. 

"I do not think that is true," said Cunorix. He leaned his head toward Alexios, as though he was going to kiss him on the neck, but out of the corner of his eye Alexios saw Cunorix's mouth turn impossibly broad, saw his teeth lengthen into fangs, and he drew back, startled – and the next thing he knew he was awake and on the floor, his elbow throbbing painfully where he had fallen on it.

"I should like to have a full night's sleep," Alexios muttered as he got back into his bed and drew the rugs over himself again. But sleep was impossible. He could not keep from turning Cunorix's words over in his head, again and again. 

In the morning he was hollow-cheeked and bleary-eyed, as he was most mornings. His arm hurt terribly, and he wondered whether he ought to resume wearing the sling he had put aside when they had come to Corstopitum. The paperwork in his small office in the Principia seemed to be written in a foreign language, and he had to blink his eyes and read the lines several times before they made sense to him. He forced himself to concentrate; it was important to have all of the supplies in order before they left for Belgica. 

The shadows were beginning to lengthen across the room when Lucius came to the door to diffidently inform the Commander that the men had something to show him on the parade ground. Drusillus and Hilarion were waiting for him by the bundles of hay that had been set at the side as seats for observing the drills; the Frontier Scouts did not rate fancy benches, Hilarion had observed once, but Alexios did not mind. Hay was soft enough, though a bit scratchy. The men stood in ranks before him, more or less at attention.

He sat, and Hilarion and Drusillus took their seats beside him. Or rather, Drusillus sat; Hilarion draped himself across the bale as though it were a couch, leaning across to murmur into Alexios' ear, "It seems the Attacotti have at least one skill that will serve them well as Frontier Wolves."

"And that would be?"

Hilarion nodded to Lucius, who had remained standing. "The Votadini and the Dalriads are not the only tribes with war dances."

Lucius made a sign, and the men began stamping their feet in a slow, steady rhythm. Alexios began to smile. Now that he was south of the Wall, he had been too long among the Legions who came from more sober traditions. He had missed the whirling and stamping dances of the tribes. They demonstrated the men's skill with their weapons just as effectively as the standard arms drills of the Eagles, and were vastly more entertaining.

They began with the Dirk-Drill, just as his old Number Three Ordo had done; he supposed they must have done something like it back in their own lands, for the men deftly handled the dirks in the familiar patterns, touching them together lightly and then spinning them in their hands, faster and faster. Such had his men done at Castellum, when they performed for Praepositus Montanus…no, he did not want to think about that, because it brought to mind all that had come after….

The Dirk-Drill came to its dramatic close, the men throwing them high and then catching them by their blades. The men set down their dirks and picked up spears, and the rhythm, beat out by feet and by cupped hands slapping against thighs, changed to something Alexios did not recognize. Nor did he recognize the slow passes the men began to perform; this must be an Attacotti dance, he thought, something of their own that they had brought with them.

And that brought the Dance of the Bull Calves to mind, the dance that had particular, private meaning for the Dalriads and the Votadini separately. Perhaps this dance had a meaning for the Attacotti, thought Alexios. Although even if it did, at least it would not lead to a battle, as they were all of them Attacotti, and not two separate tribes. They were all brothers.

Brothers. 

Of a sudden he remembered what Hilarion had said, when Alexios was newly arrived at Castellum. "You're among brothers," he had said; and the outgoing Commander, Julius Gavros, had said the Frontier Wolves were a family, their loyalties to each other stronger than loyalties to kin.

It was perhaps not true that he had no brothers, he realized. And as this thought came to his mind, he noticed one of the whirling, stamping men – they were moving faster now, their spears alternately held high and thrust low between them – spinning closer to the hay bales where he and Hilarion and Drusillus sat watching, a man with broad shoulders and rough hair of russet brown and a mouth like a frog's, and it was Cunorix, his knuckles tight on his spear-shaft, and Alexios did not stop to think, did not hesitate, but leapt up from the hay bale and threw himself onto Cunorix, knocking him to the ground just as the spear left his hand.

He heard a shout from behind him, and a bitten-off cry. The stamping and drumming stopped abruptly. "Sir!" said Lucius. His voice seemed to come from a great distance away.

He looked down at the frightened boy who lay beneath him. For a moment, Cunorix's broad mouth smiled at him, and then it was only the boy's quivering lip, the boy's wide and unfamiliar eyes which blinked uncertainly.

"Hilarion, are you all right?" said Alexios. He did not take his eyes from the boy. 

"I do not think I am quite dead." Hilarion's voice sounded strained, quite unlike his usual easy drawl. Alexios looked up quickly; Hilarion's face was as white as milk, and the spear…the spear…

"Lucius, fetch the surgeon," Alexios ordered.

"That won't be –" said Hilarion; and then he collapsed.

* * *

The boy, when questioned, stammered that he did not know how his spear could have loosed itself from his hand. He swore he did not mean to harm any of the Centurions, that he had been dancing the spear-dance as he had practiced, and then he had somehow found himself lying on the ground with the Commander full-length on top of him. He was very young, and he looked as though he were about to cry. Alexios could not bring himself to punish him; he didn't really deserve punishment anyway, he suspected, although Lucius looked at him oddly when Alexios sent the boy away with only a few stern words.

When Alexios was finally allowed into the sick block, it was well past sunset. "Don't tire him," the medic warned, as they walked down the corridor to the small room which had been allocated to Hilarion for his recovery. Torches along the walls cast strange, flickering shadows. "It is still a close thing whether he will live or die."

"He will live," said Alexios, and opened the door.

"Hail to my Commander," said Hilarion, from the narrow cot where he lay, his head propped up on his folded wolfskin cloak. His voice was weak and hoarse, and it made Alexios ache to hear it. "My apologies, Sir, but I'm afraid I'm unable to salute." 

"I suppose I will have to excuse you." He spoke with deliberate lightness as he stepped closer to the bed. Hilarion looked terrible; his sandy hair was plastered down onto his forehead with sweat, and his face was still the unnatural color of curdled milk. Even his freckles had paled. His right shoulder was swathed in bandages, covering him from his elbow to his neck, and his arm was tightly bound against his body. "Does it hurt very much?"

"I was never better," Hilarion rasped, and Alexios had to smile, hearing his own words thrown back at him this way. "But whatever possessed that man to use me for target practice?"

Possessed. A shudder went through him at the horribly appropriate word which Hilarion had used unknowingly. 

"You should tell him," said Cunorix's voice, and Alexios swiveled his head sharply. Cunorix stood by the door, his arms folded in front of him. He cast no shadow in the torchlight. "As my brother was to be your target, so your brother was mine."

"That was not my doing," Alexios whispered.

"No," said Hilarion, "I am told I'm to thank you for spoiling his aim. Missed my heart by a hand's-breadth."

"Two inches in the right place," said Cunorix. "But it was not the right place."

"It was to save him!"

"Save him!" said Cunorix. "Shall I save _your_ brother in that manner?" He stepped toward where Hilarion lay on the cot, his hands reaching for Hilarion's neck.

" _He_ has done nothing to you!" cried Alexios, a bit desperately. He lunged toward Cunorix.

"Sir, are you –" Hilarion began, frowning; then he began coughing and choking as Cunorix's fingers closed around his throat. His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and he slumped against the pillow of his folded cloak.

Alexios' hands passed through Cunorix's body as though it were made of air. "Stop!"

Behind him, the door flew open; and between one breath and the next, Cunorix was gone, and he was left awkwardly crouching at Hilarion's bedside. "What is this?" demanded the medic, striding toward the bed. He knelt to feel the pulse at Hilarion's throat, then turned to glare at Alexios. "What have you done to him?"

"I have done nothing," said Alexios. He heard a quiet snort of amusement, and turned his head; Cunorix stood against the wall where he had first appeared. "Is he – he is all right?"

"I would not say he is all right," said the medic reprovingly. "He is asleep, and he is breathing. But he needs to rest now, so now it is time that you leave."

"I will stay." 

"He must sleep."

"Yes," agreed Alexios. "He must sleep, and I will watch over him to ensure that he does." And that he awakens after, he thought but did not say aloud. "You can bring me a chair, or I will sit here on the floor. I have slept in less comfortable places."

The medic's eyes narrowed. "I know what is best for him, and I tell you, you must go."

"And I am his Commander, and I will stay." He dropped to the floor and sat with his back against the wall, as though challenging the medic to remove him, but his eyes were on Cunorix.

The medic sighed, and frowned, and bent to listen to Hilarion's chest, and pressed his fingers to Hilarion's neck and forehead a few more times. Then he shot Alexios a look of pure annoyance; but finally, he left. 

When the door had closed, Alexios stood and bent over Hilarion. Sweat beaded on Hilarion's chalky face, and his breaths were shallow and labored, but he did seem to be sleeping. "Brother," he whispered, brushing the damp hair away from Hilarion's face. Then he straightened and turned toward Cunorix.

"I will not let you hurt him."

"How good it is that you love him so much." The note of mockery in Cunorix's voice was unmistakable, but his eyes, Alexios thought, were sad. He remembered when he had met Cunorix and Connla, how they had been quarrelling when they had entered the Hall; and he remembered Julius Gavros saying that love and hate often came together, with brothers. It was as though they were two sides of the same feeling, easily turned like a coin in one's fingers. 

"You loved me once, or so you led me to believe," Alexios said softly.

"And I had thought you loved me. And yet you killed me – na, na, there was nothing of hate in that, I know. It was a thing that had to be done. But it is also that you killed Connla."

"That too was a thing that had to be done."

"It is in my mind that you should have found another way."

"What other way was there?" Alexios spread his hands in frustration. "If Connla had only more sense in his head, there might have been another way! If Chieftain Cunorix of the Votadini had been able to govern his brother, there might have been another way! If the Praepositus Glaucus Montanus had not been the ripest idiot that ever was, with a horse too fine for his fat behind, there might have been another way!" 

"That one was indeed a fine stallion," said Cunorix. "He did not deserve such a rider."

"Well, both rider and horse are dead now."

"He did not deserve that fate, either." Something had changed in Cunorix's voice; it was as though the mockery and anger had drained away, leaving only sadness and perhaps a tinge of regret. It seemed to Alexios it was not only the Praepositus' horse he spoke of, but of Connla, and perhaps of Hilarion as well. Cunorix stepped away from the wall and began to walk toward the bed.

"Stay back." 

Cunorix shook his head. "I will not harm him now." He came across the room to stand next to Alexios. Somehow he seemed less substantial than he had moments ago, less real. As though with his anger gone, there was nothing to keep him from fading away.

"You are right," Cunorix said quietly. "The Chieftain of the Votadini should have better governed his brother."

"I know that you tried. I remember that on the day I met you, you were arguing about a horse." How long ago that seemed now!

"It appears that we argued much about horses. And about other things."

"Some horses go their own way no matter how much you pull on the reins," said Alexios. "Even though you try to keep them from plunging over a cliff."

Cunorix was silent for a moment. Finally he lifted a hand and brushed Alexios' cheek with his fingers. It felt to Alexios like a cool wind blowing gently past his face. "Watch over your brother," he whispered. "Keep him from the cliff, as I could not keep mine."

Alexios swallowed. "I will."

Then Cunorix turned his head, and his face brightened, as though he were looking at someone he knew, someone Alexios could not see. "Sa, I am coming." He turned and brushed his lips against Alexios' lips; there was that same brief sensation of coolness, and then he was gone.

"Well, that was interesting," murmured Hilarion. 

Alexios looked down at him in shock; how long had Hilarion been awake? His face was a more natural color than it had been before, and although his voice was still raspy, it seemed as though he was breathing more easily. "What did you see?" Alexios asked cautiously.

"I thought I heard my Commander in conversation with a certain Chieftain of the Votadini. But of course that could not have been, for I saw my Commander slay that man myself." He raised an eyebrow. "I imagine it must have been a dream."

"Of course it was," said Alexios. "Now go back to sleep."

"Yes, Sir," Hilarion said, and closed his eyes. 

Alexios lay down on the hard floor beside the cot. No doubt Hilarion was still muzzy-headed with the pain from his injury, and he would most likely forget it all upon waking, or believe it had indeed been a dream. There was no reason for Hilarion to remember. Cunorix had not been _his_ ghost.

But for himself, he knew he would remember for all his days. Cunorix was now gone west beyond the sunset, and he and Hilarion, along with the rest of the First Attacotti Frontier Scouts, would soon be gone to Belgica; but Alexios would remember the scent of smoke and leather, the clear eyes and the strong shield-shoulder. He would remember a man who quarreled with his brother and fought with his dearest friend, and who loved them both.

He closed his eyes as well; and when he opened them again, after no dreams at all, it was morning.


End file.
